An Act: Rotting Rose
by Memphis Jin
Summary: Sort of part of An Act (can be found on my profile); Harry has shattering thoughts after the war. Between being Lily's child or Lily herself is a fine line which becomes blurry. Pre-Slash Snarry


A slow tune caught his attention while he was walking through the aisle of a muggle supermarket. He'd heard it once before, directly after the war ended and had torn a huge gap between his friends and him.

There was an instant lump in his throat as the memories of loneliness and solitude kept huddling forward, clouding the vision for a short amount of time. Harry didn't actually know if he stood there for long with his gaze looking into nothingness and at the same time capturing the red lipstick in front of him.

At first, when he'd come to the supermarket, he'd wanted to buy something so stupidly normal and, well, _human_ , but then this innocent song emptied his head and left Harry questioning why he had even bothered.

The song changed. It hit Harry harder than he'd supposed it would and, strangely, he felt a sudden clarity.

His fingers grabbed the lipstick tester and he wondered. _How would have mom looked with it on her lips? How would have her long auburn hair caressed her face with the red lips and green eyes? Which dress would she have worn?_

Harry swallowed hard. His jittery fingers opened the lid and he carefully, not to make a mess, put the lipstick on his pouty lips. He then turned his head to look at the mirror only to suppress a gasp – _Bullshit. They all told me utter bullshit._

The young adult remembered the Mirror of Erised and Hagrid's photo album. Harry looked so much like his mother and he was glad that it was like nine in the morning. After all, he didn't think a man with lipstick on and watering eyes made a good impression.

He bought the lipstick after frantically smearing the tester off his lips. Nobody would have to know. Nobody would understand why. He didn't try to discover what _it_ was and _it_ meant but he was sure that no-one would ever understand _it_ however he described what _it_ made with his heart – clenching and at the same filling it with closeness to his mother and her undying love. No, nobody was to ever know anything about _it._

Not that he even had anyone to tell about _it._

When the clerk threw him an odd glance, he said: "A birthday present for my girlfriend." She warmly smiled and asked if he wanted the lipstick to be packed as a gift. "No, thanks" he'd replied, grinning, "She hates wrapping paper for some reason."

 _How have I become such a good liar? Maybe the Dursleys do that with you._

Between chasing down Horcruxes and surviving, Harry did all that was needed to be done. He didn't think about his rottenness and foul lying mouth then but now he did. It made him want to throw things at walls and dread sped up his spine.

He wasn't like Lily at all. He wasn't like his pure and whole-hearted mother who surely would've hated someone like him – a liar.

Harry wanted to feel the assurance of red, velvet hair softly touching his neck and shoulders that he, indeed, wasn't a rotten rodent and impertinent brat as Snape had said. Snape... yes, he often wondered about _him._ Snape had given him his memories in a teardrop and from them he knew how close he'd been to his mother. Lily had, to a point, loved Snape more than she'd loved James Potter.

The green-eyed boy took a sip of tea, which was already cold, from the expensive china, which had been stalled away at Grimmauld Place.

Since Harry's discovery of his father's behaviour to Snape he didn't want to have anything to do with him at all. The black and messy hair and the ridiculous glasses he still had were reasons why he didn't like looking at himself.

"What a handsome guy you are, Harry! Just like your father." He hated it more than Voldemort because at least he had been able to kill Voldemort. Harry could neither kill his resemblance to James Potter, nor could he kill the people who said this nonsense.

But Harry could be Lily's child rather than James's child. There were actors and actresses who were other people on a daily basis. If Harry was James, then Rose was Lily.

Harry yet again sipped his tea. This time, it was completely cold. He couldn't pretend he was somebody he wasn't, but, yet again, he didn't know who he was anyway.

The first couple of attempts were really bad. You just couldn't have done it any worse, Harry thought grimly in hindsight.

He smeared the mascara and fucked up the tights completely, also he didn't shave his armpits, his legs or his chest; the wig was crappy and didn't remotely look like it had on the picture of its package. Sad thing was that this shitty masquerade was just as frustrating as it was wonderful.

Harry eventually got better at using make-up and shaving and all the other stuff he didn't want to speak out loud – he found an interesting book on transfiguring one's appearance and threw the wig into the rubbish.

He still was lonely and hated going to the public. He still had minutes of panic and war. He still thought about Snape. His head seemed more innocent.

Whenever he wasn't occupied with his friends' mandatory letters asking how he was doing and what he had been up to the last months or so, he built a moderate addiction to shopping dresses. The girl working at his favourite shop didn't ask questions and he was glad. Maybe Harry would've had a breakdown had anyone ever started asking.

As winter was coming in a steady pace and Harry realised his _friends_ had stopped altogether caring, he had too much time on his hand. Too much time for him to handle, because if he had too much of time, Harry started to play out scenarios in his head. His hair was permanently auburn and falling in light waves on his skinny pallid shoulders these days. Sometimes he lost himself in his play and after he'd gone to bed whilst still endured in the scenes, he woke up as Harry whose eyes hurt because of the contact lenses he'd forgotten to put out the day before.

It was disappointing to find out that, in fact, he wasn't in a red four-poster bed like he'd believed before.

It was more disappointing to remember being Harry, the unruly brat of James.

The hugest disappointment, though, was to be reminded that Snape was out there, not at the same age as he was but twenty years older, hating him. Because Snape had never been his intelligent, accepting Slytherin best friend, bordering on caring boyfriend.

It fucked up Harry's mind and he was going insane.

 _Severus... Severus... I'm alone on Christmas and Severus will not be here... will not be blushing lightly as he cradles the cocoa in the china with this grateful smile gracing his features. Severus will not bring me a present and he will not hug me, showing his true self only to me for this night as he'd done in the past._

Harry stared into the flames of his chimney. Soon it was Christmas. The cold season drew many in their houses and led them not to leave them.

Large snowflakes flew to the ground and a memory pushed forward. The melody of Holly Holy was heard in the background and gingerbread smelled. _"Severus, come, dance with me!"_

 ** _"_** ** _What? I can't..."_**

 _"_ _Doesn't matter! Just... make this our song?"_

Harry dressed quickly. Where he lived was only a street which was lighted with streetlamps. No children. No teenagers. Only a couple of elderly couples and him.

Oh... Holly Holy love... take the lonely child...

Harry ignored the cold and stepped outside, hearing the rhythm catch him and felt as free like he had the first time he flew on a broom. Dancing to the sound of the past which may or may not have been his at once, he didn't care.

He danced and danced and didn't let the coldness grab him.

Suddenly he crashed into a chest. Looking up, he saw a gaunt face – _his_ face.

"What?" was all Severus said apparently shocked to see him in this state. Harry sensed the coldness he'd been ignoring and the simple word caught him completely off-guard. Why was a very real Severus Snape in front of him when this Snape hadn't bothered before?

"Potter, is it you? You look..."

 _Please, say it. Say it, say it! Please... say I look just like her... please. Say that I look like Lily!_

"...more than ridiculous. Your sheer attention-seeking never ceases to amaze me. And there the Headmistress was concerned about you. I shall tell her you're as always. Just like James." Then he turned and his robes billowed after him just like they did when they were in school.

Harry was shaking. He sank to the ground. It didn't matter when his lips started to turn blue. After all, Severus' words had already destroyed what had been left inside him. It didn't matter whether his shell survived or not.

As snow fell on his red waves and the dress Harry's face landed in the whiteness.

 _I'm not Lily Evans. I'm a rotting rose._

 ** _"_** ** _Damn. Fuck. What the hell._** Why do you have to bother me? **_Please, stay with me. Don't die. Not because of_** your stupidity."

 _Warm._

Harry opened his eyes and black ones were staring back at him. There was an uncanny expression in them he'd only seen in those memories. These were the eyes of Severus not those of Snape. These were the eyes with which Severus had looked so softly at Lily.

"You could've died – **What have you been thinking?!"** It was strange how Severus' Cockney came through, making it sound as if two different people were speaking with the same tongue.

"You were three day completely out. You were **god-damn** lucky that I had forgotten to give you a letter from Minerva. Or you wouldn't be here. So... **what were you thinking?"**

"You" Harry's raspy _manly_ voice caught Severus' attention.

"You said I looked ridiculous. _Ridiculous._ After all the effort not to look like _him_ you said I looked ridiculous."

A quick emotion passed Severus' face. "It bothered you this greatly?"

Harry sat up from the couch he'd been lying on. The spell had worn off, his hair was back in black, messed up style and the contact lenses were missing.

"Here" Severus gave him his glasses. They'd been on the nightstand. Just then Harry noticed that he wasn't wearing the dress, but a simplistic t-shirt and shorts.

Harry Potter. Not Rose, not Lily. Just Harry.

His lower lip trembled and automatically he hugged himself.

 _"_ _I'm not Lily, never have been."_

"I know, Harry. It's okay." Severus said gently.

"I'm not innocent, I'm bad, I'm a freak, I'm Boy. I'm... I'm sorry." Harry's voice cracked and tears rolled down his cheeks.

"Harry – there's nothing wrong with being you." Severus' fingers unclasped Harry's which had begun to claw into each other.

"IT IS!" Harry cried desperately. "YOU... YOU... you hate... you hate me when I'm Harry. And I hate it when I'm Harry, too. Because... because... I look like James."

A pained expression manifested itself on Severus' face.

"I wanted to hate you, yes, but not because you look like James. You don't, in fact, do so much. Not even the hair is close to his."

Harry froze and searched in Severus' eyes for a lie. There wasn't one. He was telling the truth.

"You have the hair colour of your grandfather from your mother's side."

"It's shitty, nonetheless" Harry considered. "Not being glamorous, not feeling _nice."_

Severus chuckled as Harry's sobs had ended.

"Do you know why I'd been pissed that day? Minerva's request interfered with my being... as you'd say... glamorous. Couldn't come to you looking like that, now, could I?" Severus showed his fingernails to Harry. They were in a dark blue colour and had white French tips.

Harry laughed. Just like that, _it_ was okay.


End file.
